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ciates in a tour of pleasure, than their different opinions with respect to the time and pains which ought to be bestowed on objects of curiosity. I myself am a liesurely traveller, but I was compelled in mere despair to abandon my old friend Job Furlong, who persuaded me a few years ago to make a journey with him in the north and west of France. Our intended route was through Normandy, Brittany, along the Loire, and so to Paris, where we were to consider how the rest of our time should be disposed of. After we had lingered three days at Dieppe, I was obliged to dislodge him by stratagem before he had half completed his inventory of remarkable things in the church of St. Remy. This caused him so many regrets that I did not venture to rebel while we hovered eight and forty hours about Neuchâtel and the Château d'Arques. On the ninth day we arrived at Rouen, and in three more we had taken a particular survey of the custom-house, the great clock-tower, the Marché-neuf, and seven of the principal fountains; and we had actually digested a plan for viewing the cathedral. It then occurred to me to calculate the time we were likely to spend in surveying the whole city, and I found that with good health, fine weather, and unabated activity, our task would probably engage us thirteen weeks. I represented this to my companion, who very calmly took the spectacles from his nose and the pen from his ear, and mildly answered that he had already been hurried more than was consistent either with health or with improvement; adding, in his quaint way, that travelling was one thing and steeple-hunting another, that he did not come into France to gallop over it like a Cossack, that he considered a foreign country as a book, and he, for one, would not turn the leaf till he had finished the page. Upon this explanation we parted; I left him, one fine day in September, pondering and pensive on the bridge of boats, and on the bridge of boats I found him again when I returned through Rouen from the tour we had proposed making together. He had by this time conquered six of eleven departments into which he had divided the remarkable objects of the city, but as winter was now beginning, he agreed to suspend his operations and return with me to England. Twice again did Job cross over to Normandy, and still the bridge of boats formed the boundary of his excursions; at last, in a moment of energy, upon a fourth visit, he boldly pushed across the Seine and proceeded as far as Evreux, but precipitately retraced his steps on recollecting that he had always omitted, while at Rouen, to taste the mineral spring of St. Paul. He had not finished criticising the smack of this water when he discovered a capital mistake in his measurement of the butter-tower; and in rectifying this, he was led to make some further speculations on the famous bell, said to be the largest in Europe, except one which is or was at Moscow. "When I complete my tour of the Continent," said Mr. Furlong, "I shall of course see Moscow; and it is a satisfaction to judge for oneself, even between two pieces of bell-metal." Winter, as usual, found him in the midst of his labours, and he carried home his note-book enriched with a voluminous supplement, and seven divisions of new queries, to be resolved on the next excursion.

But I prefer even the conscientious plodding of my friend Job, to the senseless activity of persons who flit from object to object, without taste or even curiosity, in a rapid and business-like discharge of what

they conceive to be their duty as gentlemen on their travels. I refused to dine with an Englishman at Paris, who told me (in a jargon which he affected) that he had "done" the picture-gallery of the Louvre in five hours and thirty-seven minutes without missing a number, and would engage to "knock off" the marbles in half that time. And I have never felt duly grateful for the hospitality of a well-meaning city gentleman, who once, when I was very young, insisted on my taking a corner of his carriage from Mayence to Dusseldorf. "I will shew you all the fine scenery of the Rhine," he said, "for I go this way on purpose, and I make it a point to miss nothing in travelling." To do him justice, we made easy journeys, and fared sumptuously. A servant was always sent on early to the place where we proposed resting for the night and my friend piqued himself on arriving as punctually to dinner as if he had only driven down to his own house at Tooting. He carried with him what he called a "rout;" a written list of the objects and places to be noticed in each stage; and it was evidently the greatest pleasure he enjoyed, to cross out the names with his pencil, as we despatched the successive portions of our task. He never allowed a halt but with manifest uneasiness, except once, when we drew up to the inn-door at Bacharach to taste the wine. "Stop," he would say reluctantly to the postilion-" but you need not dismount. What is that town with the castle?"—"Caub," "And that odd building in the middle of the river ?"—"The Pfalz." "And that high place with the fortification?"-" The Rheinfels." "Drive on-be brisk. Come, we have seen Caub," (striking out the names as he spoke) “ Pfalz, and Rheinfels, and we have only lost three minutes and a half-too much time-but it takes so long to make these Germans move again if they once stop." At Coblentz (which was one of our resting-places) I suggested that we should cross the river to visit the renowned fortress of Ehrenbreitstein. "Why," said he, "we saw it for a good quarter of an hour as we walked up that hill to the Chartreuse." "But that was such a distant view." "Well-stay-they will be ten minutes putting the horses to-run down to the water-side and look at it, and you shall have my telescope." When we approached the celebrated Seven Mountains, we were told that two of the eminences before us were Drachenfels and Rolandseck; both scenes of romantic legend. "And which is Drachenfels," said I," and which Rolandseck?” "What does it matter?" answered my companion, "we are sure we see them both." And thus did we pass through the scenery of the Rhine, that

"Blending of all beauties; streams and dells,

Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, mountain, vine,
And chief-less castles breathing stern farewells,

66

From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly dwells."

It was my fortune many years afterwards to meet the same gentleman a second time on the banks of the Rhine. We encountered each other at Cologne. He had just been "seeing," in his manner, all the notable things of this ancient city, from the skulls of the three Wise Men to the rival manufactories of scented water, and had completed his task within a quarter of an hour of dinner-time. I asked him whether he had seen the famous Crucifixion of St. Peter, one of the masterpieces of Rubens, lately replaced in the church for which it was originally painted. He had not heard of it, and far from receiving

the suggestion with pleasure, he looked at me with as much mortification as if I had told him of a great loss at sea, or an elopement in his family. "Well," he said at last, "I suppose I must see the picture. I am sure I thank you for mentioning it. How far did you say it was to the church? You are certain the painting was in the Louvre? So unlucky! the thing happening at this time of day. Well! it is useless to say more. You know I am an enthusiast for Rubens-have a Rubens myself at Tooting." So the poor gentleman bustled away to St. Peter's Church, and I charitably followed to assist him in his homage to the Fine Arts. We arrived; he entered with his watch in his hand, and made directly for the altar. The great picture is concealed from view by an imperfect copy which supplied its place while the original Crucifixion was detained at Paris: the visitor is allowed at first to cast his eyes upon the rude imitation, which is then withdrawn, and discloses one of the most astonishing works achieved by modern art. My friend, however, did not wait for this shifting of scenes; he briskly walked up to the external canvass-"Ah!" he cried, "a very fine thing indeed! Rubens all over! Ten minutes past six, I declare. Well, I am glad I have seen the Rubens." And without waiting for remonstrance or explanation, he fled the church as precipitately as if the painted executioners had been alive and marking him out for their next victim.

A worthy Londoner whom I once met at the Lakes was as much a man of business as my good friend of the Rhine, and carried his love of method still farther. We had passed each other on the banks of Windermere, and I had begun to climb a hill near Bowness, which seemed likely to afford an extensive view of the surrounding region. I had mastered two-thirds of the ascent (which in a sultry summer's day was no light task), when I observed my acquaintance looking after me in a violent fret and agitation, and I presently perceived that he had sent his servant to overtake me. The man begged I would come back and speak to his master. I returned. "Sir," said the good citizen (who was a plump, fatherly man, and evidently overheated with anxiety on my account,)" Sir, you must excuse the liberty I am taking; but I believe you have not seen this book. I have travelled all round the Lakes, Sir, with it in my hand, and it has saved me from many mistakes, such as you were about to make just now-Sir, do you know you were going to Station V. before you had been at Station IV.? Look what the book says-Station IV. Rawlinson's-nab is a peninsular rock of a circular figure, swelling to a crown in the centre."" I believe, in the first energy of my reply I sent my kind monitor and his book, and Rawlinson's-nab-farther than was consistent with strict politeness; and I shut myself up in my inn, determined not to leave it till he had gone the round of his stations according to the rubrick, and finally evacuated the country.

My recollections would supply many other sketches of travelling society, but I pause for the present, lest the reader should refuse to proceed any farther in mine. If we part in kindness now, he will perhaps resume the subject with me hereafter.

ON LIEUTENANT HOOD.*

THE Briton lies low on a wreath of snow,

From his Island home afar,

And the bright ice sheets and the wild storm sleets
Round the rest of the gallant tar.

He had spread his sail to the Arctic gale,

On a course that no mortal knew;

With a spirit brave he had plough'd the wave,

While the freezing tempest blew.

Where the flinty North sends its terrors forth,

And life is in man alone

Where the insect that plays in the short summer rays
Is in winter a thing of stone.t-

There long had he been, and with wonder seen

In a circle the sun career,

And flash through the night in his radiance bright
In the June of the Polar year.

And a wintry night by the snow-beams' light
He had worn for dull weeks away,

And the north lights had shed on his hardy head
Their gleam, in day's mockery.

And his task was o'er, and he sought the shore-
The shore of his native Isle:

And his bold heart burn'd, as he homeward turn'd,
At the thought of its green fields' smile.

And he counted with joy that his brave employ
Had won him his Country's praise :

And he fondly dream'd, as the prospect gleam'd,
On an hour of toil-purchased ease.

And cheerful he past over antres vast,
While the deep snow hid the ground,

At night 'twas his bed, and pillow'd his head

Mid the horrors reigning round.

But the famine came, and he dragg'd his frame,
Hunger-stung and wearily,

Over morass and stone of that frozen zone,

To his cold log hut to die.

They have laid him there in their hearts' despair,

Where the stunted pine-trees grow,

Where alone the sky with blue canopy

Covers the bold heart low.

Where no breath is heard-where no wing of bird

Cleaves the desolate atmosphere;

Where the softest sound is a thunder-bound

In the hush of the fear-struck air.

Oh there he is laid!—but no time shall shade

The worth of his honest name:

Though the life of the brave may set dark in the grave,
There's a dawn for their glorious fame!

*See Captain Franklin's Narrative of his Journey to the Polar Sea.

J.

+ Insects, such as spiders and others, are frozen hard during the Polar winters, and may be thrown about like stones without injury. On being brought to a fire, they recover animation, and move their limbs as actively as in the summer-season.

ON THE CHARACTER OF LOUIS XI.

Louis XI. to whom the public attention has lately been drawn in "Quentin Durward," like most of those men of extensive power and extraordinary character in whose hands lay the fate of nations, has been variously represented by historians. Some have confined themselves to a recapitulation of his cruelties, his treacheries, his tyrannical conduct, his superstitious practices, and the sad and desolate termination of his career; while others appear to have been more struck by his fortitude, his prudence in the conduct of the important enterprises he undertook, the success of his efforts in abolishing the power of the great vassals of the crown, augmenting the royal prerogative, and aggrandizing France. Under this last point of view, that country has been more indebted to him than to any other of her monarchs; for he augmented her territory and influence by the important addition of the Duchy of Burgundy and the States of Provence, Anjou, and Maine. Amongst those who were nearest his person, and in whom he most confided, he has found an admirer in Philip de Comines, who has held him up to posterity as almost an excellent king. Duclos, also, who, though historiographer, possessed independence of mind and elevation of character enough to dissuade him from any false adulation, towards at least a deceased monarch, concludes the two volumes of his Memoirs of Louis XI. in these words.

"Although Louis XI. was far from being without reproach (for few monarchs have deserved more severe ones), yet it may be said that he was celebrated equally for his virtues as his vices, and all things considered that he was a king.”

Notwithstanding this grave dictum, it is not unreasonable to doubt, whether the talismanic word king be possessed of such sovereign virtue as to obliterate the deep-dyed crimes which stain the character of this despot. Fenelon, whose candour and rectitude of mind furnished him with no other criterion for judging of kings than the happiness or misery of the people under their sway, represents Louis XI. in his Dialogues of the Dead, "as a wicked and ferocious being, the scourge of mankind." The virtuous prelate puts the following bitter reproaches into the mouth of the Cardinal de la Balue, who was very little less of a villain than his master.

"The fundamental maxim of all those counsels, which you (Louis XI.) took such pains to instil into those that surrounded you, was, that every thing they could do was to be done for you, and you alone. You reckoned as nothing the princes of your blood; nor the Queen, whom you kept at a distance from you and in captivity; nor the Dauphin, whom you had brought up in ignorance and confinement; nor the kingdom, which you desolated by your harsh and cruel policy-the interests of which were always sacrificed to the jealousy of your tyrannous authority. You even set no value upon your most devoted favourites and ministers, whom you made use of merely to deceive others. You never had the least affection for, nor put the least confidence in any one of them, unless when driven to it by the utmost necessity. It was your delight to deceive them in their turn, as you had employed them to deceive others; and they were sure to become your victims on the slightest umbrage, or when the most trifling benefit could result to you from their destruction. There was not a moment of security for any one within your sphere. You played with the lives of men. You never loved a human being,-how then could you expect that any one should love you? You delighted to deceive every one,— VOL. VI. No, 36.-1823. 62

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